The Impossibilities Of Being Henry Morgan
by dream vs nightmare
Summary: "She kept murmuring that you were dead, that she couldn't keep doing this if everyone she ever loves dies, and-" "Everyone she loves?" Henry echoes, then, voice somehow soft and sharp at the same time. He thinks it an impossibility of his curse, of himself, that he's not dared to dream Jo loves him as he loves her. Henry, Lucas, and conversations Jo doesn't overhear.


Or, the one where my ships are real and so is angst. Lots and lots of angst.

For TheBoyWhoWalksInTheLight on AO3, with mentions of supernovas and black-holes and stardust.

* * *

"Lucas." Henry says as he strides into the morgue, late afternoon sun lining his assistant's jaw and tangling up in his hair. And Henry's struck, then, by how comfortable Lucas looks, here, surrounded by death and cold, clinical air as he gets swept away in another one of his never-ending graphic novels.

His assistant startles at the sound of his voice and jumps away from the examining slab, the novel falling out his hands and onto the floor. So much for comfortable, Henry thinks.

"Holy shit, I thought you were dead!" Lucas yells, breaking the silence that'd lingered about the room.

"Mm, but you also thought I was a vampire, if I'm recalling things right." Henry murmurs in response as Lucas scrambles to try and look productive, moving to take up his usual tools from his bag.

"Yeah, I did. And I was totally doing something useful, I swear, I just…"

"Lucas." Henry says again, softer this time, as a smile curves his lips upwards.

"Woah." The young man blinks once, twice, as Henry nears him, a touch breathless as he murmurs, "Okay, so you're totally not dead. But am I dying? Cuz you've only ever looked at me like this that one other time, and I'm pretty sure I was dying, then."

Henry can do nothing but smile at him as he says, "Because you'd worried me, Lucas. But I can assure you, you are very much alive at present."

"And so are you."

Lucas seems to relax some when Henry nods his agreement, though his voice still shakes a little when he says that they should get right back into the case. It's one Henry hasn't really been present for, since the whole of it took place when he was…well. When he was hiding away from everyone and everything.

His assistant's voice steadies out a touch as he fills Henry in, then, moving his hands this way and that as he speaks. And Henry doesn't know when he began to find the gesture quite so endearing, but it somehow is coming from Lucas. As long as he never, _ever_ animates Abigail's death for him again, that is - for that was just bloody painful.

Lucas gives a brilliant analysis on one late Sarah Jessica, not only describing the extent of her injuries and the possible murder weapon, but also explaining how exactly he came to those conclusions. He references evidence Jo and Hanson discovered at the crime scene in the days before as he gestures to the victim's ankles and wrists, murmuring that it's likely their victim was bound in thick restraints, probably made of metal. It's not really what Henry came into the room for, but he listens nonetheless as Lucas points out all manner of things that happened to their vic, both pre- and post-mortem. The only problem is that once Lucas starts talking, he's not really one to stop, so after a good few minutes, Henry quiets him the only way he knows how.

He moves into his assistant's space, slowly so as not to startle him again, and settles his hands atop his shoulders. Lucas' gaze snaps up to his, breath leaving him in a rush as Henry murmurs a whisper-soft, "Lucas."

"Uhm…hi." Lucas says as his cheeks flush red, red, red under the morgue's clinical lighting. "Y'sure this isn't one of those dreams? Cuz I'm definitely starting to feel like it is."

Henry gives a curious tilt of his head and says only, "You can pinch yourself if you really think so."

Once Lucas has pinched himself once, twice, he determines that this in, indeed, the waking world. But for a moment, just one, Henry allows himself to think of what his assistant dreams of and doesn't step away from him. He imagines Lucas' dreams are a strange mix of popular culture, club music, and the two of them together. And he can't say he minds, much.

After a good moment or two, Henry does take that step back and gives Lucas the space to process things, to refocus. He asks fewer questions than Henry'd expected, and mostly about aspects of his curse Henry's never given much thought. Like if he always comes back in the same body of water, if it's that of salt or brackish, and where his clothes go to. But Henry answers Lucas' questions as best he can, though he does manage to get a little sidetracked here and there. He murmurs that it makes no logical sense his clothes are always disappearing given he was wearing clothes when he'd originally been shot, and Henry smiles again for reasons he need not name.

* * *

Some time later, Lucas says that he's good, that he can handle totally handle his secret, and Henry has no doubt of that. For Lucas may seem childlike and rather impossible to others, but Henry knows the truth of his assistant just as his assistant now knows the truth of him.

"So, okay. If you're not dead, and I'm not dying, then why are you here? Not existentially or anything, just…why here and not with Abe? Or Jo?" _Or anyone but me?_

Though Lucas doesn't voice that third question aloud as he moves to sip on his latte, Henry knows it's there, sitting just on the tip of his tongue. And he cannot help but smile at his assistant as he murmurs, "Because I like you, Lucas."

He grins at Henry, then, joy slow to bloom across his face but brilliant all the same. "Cool."

They work on the case for a good while after that, and it's only when Henry moves to reach for one of the tools in his bag that he realizes how close they're standing together, his gloved hand just brushing against Lucas' arm. Though it's his own fault, Lucas apologizes for the contact and moves to stand a touch further away from him. But Henry will have none of it, murmuring that though the touch was accidental, it wasn't the least bit unpleasant. Again, Lucas just looks to him with a smile and a soft-spoken, "Oh. That's uhm…that's cool."

A long day bleeds into an even longer night, and it's only when they're off the clock that Henry dares step behind Lucas and press a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek in one smooth, fluid motion. "Thank you for today, Lucas."

And Lucas just sucks in a sharp breath and says, "You're sure I'm not dying?"

Henry laughs, then, low and warm. "Yes, I'm quite sure."

* * *

Henry and Lucas settle into their usual spot at a well-liked cafe the next morning, with Lucas nursing a latte and Henry, a cup of tea. Lucas tells him of trivial things like any other day, and for once, Henry does the same. He regales him with stories from his past, stories of England and the war and the only loves of his lives that'd ever counted, and he laughs and laughs and laughs when Lucas asks if he's some kind of Time Lord.

His own cursed existence comes up soon after that, though, and all his laughter dies away when Lucas brings up his most recent death. He lets him know that the whole precinct was a mess for days, for weeks, and that work just wasn't the same without his British charm, scarves and joie de death manner. Henry reaches for Lucas' hand, then, meeting his eyes over the steam of their drinks as he murmurs, "I am terribly sorry. If I'd thought to tell you, any of you, before Adam'd shot me…"

Lucas squeezes his hand and says, "You don't have to apologize. Or at least, not to me, anyway. I figured you'd be back somehow, like I just knew…and even if I was wrong, even if you weren't gonna come back, I at least knew you were proud of me."

"That I am. Every day." Henry says over the rim of his tea cup as he brings it to his lips.

"Cool." Is Lucas' only answer, soft and breathless as he gazes to Henry with a wonderstruck look in his eyes. He blinks the stardust of it all away in the next moment, though, as he adds, "But you can't keep dancing around Jo forever, y'know. She lost it when you…when you…"

"Died." Henry supplements, and Lucas nods his head in agreement before he continues on.

"She kept yelling that it wasn't possible, that it couldn't be possible, because one second you were there and then the next, you just disappeared." He winces at that, knows that's what it must've looked to Jo as she'd ran toward him on the abandoned subway platform. His mouth had been full of blood and his mind had been full of memories, head cramming with them as death came to claim him again.

"How long did she stay?" Is all he can ask, all he can even think to ask.

"Until I pulled her away and said that we needed to go, that you were gonna be fine. But she didn't believe me, just kept murmuring that you were dead, that she couldn't keep doing this if everyone she's ever loved died, and-"

"Everyone she's ever loved?" Henry echoes, then, voice somehow soft and sharp at the same time. He thinks it an impossibility of his curse, of himself, that he's not dared to dream Jo loves him as he loves her.

"Yeah. I think she was angry at first. Like really, really angry. But then she whispered something about Paris and just kind of collapsed in my arms." Lucas seems to consider this a moment, but Henry barely hears him over the noise of his own thoughts. She'd mentioned Paris. She'd mentioned Paris, City of Lights and Lovers and an ancient magic that'd thrummed through his veins with his every breath of air he'd pulled into his lungs. She'd mentioned Paris and he cannot think, cannot breathe, because it is impossible. And he can imagine them there, in that moment, can feel his heart aching at the thought of sunlit streets and aimless walks and long, long talks in wide-windowed cafes. But he can imagine Lucas there, too, in that moment, cannot picture a Paris without him, somehow. And Henry thinks it another impossibility that maybe Lucas would go with them, that maybe he loves him, too.

"Well, okay. Maybe she didn't collapse into them per say, but she definitely cried as I held her."

He comes back to himself, then, a supernova of emotion bursting out his heart and into his bloodstream at the picture Lucas is painting for him, one where he and the Detective had stood huddled together by the place where Henry should've been but wasn't. And when Henry thinks he can stand it no longer, when the supernova threatens to be swallowed by a black hole of guilt and shame and the long, long story he's hidden away, Lucas says that he'd offered to drive Jo home. Henry concentrates on that, anchors himself to the soft note in Lucas' voice. He says that when they got there, she just kept murmuring that they needed to get the blood off her hands. Not once in all the months of their partnership has Henry known blood to send Jo into such a panic, and he can hardly breathe as Lucas continues painting this picture of hysterics and lies and blood. (Henry'd tasted it in his mouth and seen smears of it on her hands, but oh Gods, he hadn't _known_ then.)

"She was freaking out, y'know? Yelling and yelling to just get it off, so I got her into the shower and helped her do that." Lucas doesn't quite look at Henry as he adds, voice low and shy, "And then she didn't wanna be alone after that, so I…I-"

"You stayed." Henry offers, voice whisper-soft and full of understanding as he meets Lucas' gaze and whispers, "Don't be ashamed of that, Lucas. She needed someone. She needed you."

"Yeah, but you guys are like…and then we're also kinda like-" He goes into one of his elaborate gestures again, moving his hands this way and that to try and describe exactly what the three of them are.

"I know. But we can work on figuring all that out later. Right now, though-" He can feel the supernova burning hot and fiery in his veins again, can feel it turning his blood to ash as he says, "Right now, I think I owe Jo an apology."

"And an explanation. Don't think it really matters how you word it, though, because she's definitely gonna bring her sidearm."

Somehow, Henry finds a touch of humor, of comfort, in that and says, "I wouldn't dream of her doing any less" around the ghost of a smile.

Jo does bring her sidearm, and her anger, and her hurt. She also brings her disbelief, her confusion, and a glimmer of her trust. He can see it flickering in her warm, dark eyes as the three of them settle down on the couch together, and he dares let himself _hope_. Hope it stays, hope she believes him, hope she still trusts him after all is said and done.

He tells her his story, tells both of them his story, as they take long sips of their drinks, laden with whipped cream and shots of Bailey's. He knows they'll need it the further they delve into his past, his life. And he expects her to turn him away, to tell him that his life is impossible, insane, and that she doesn't believe a word of it. But life surprises him, then, _she_ surprises, him, for she does nothing of the sort, merely refills her drinks and asks her questions in between the lifetimes he describes to her and Lucas both.

When he's exhausted his voice and told them every detail he knows and remembers, she wraps him up in a fierce hug and says, voice low and thick, "Do not _ever_ hide from me again."

Lucas steps forward, then, too, murmurs, "Don't hide from either of us" as he joins the circle of their arms. And the supernova in him surges bright enough, brilliant enough, to drown out the all-consuming black hole that lay in wait. He is bright and new and turning to stardust in their arms, and he thinks then that he doesn't mind the impossibilities of being Henry Morgan so long as they look at him like this, hold him like this, love him like this.

* * *

Because my OT3 needed some love.


End file.
